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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985779">my winter song to you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolshope/pseuds/foolshope'>foolshope</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Riverdale (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Archie Andrews-centric, Blood and Injury, Gen, Temporary Character Death, gay cpr, that's the fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:33:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolshope/pseuds/foolshope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>he barely notices betty and veronica’s bodies crowd against his own, doesn’t hear their voices past the sickening beat of his own blood pumping past his ears, and it feels wrong, so wrong, when so much of jughead’s is decorating his skin and washing it a milky white in the moonlight. </p><p>-</p><p>or, a missing moment / ruminations of jughead's resuscitation</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>my winter song to you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>more posting of unfinished fics that i'm unironically sad about never panning out like i originally planned in their entirety because i'll probably never actually finish them this long after the fact</p><p>spoilers for up to season 4 episode 16 i guess</p><p>rated t for description of blood / injury ? idk</p><p>lyrics from winter song by sara bareilles &amp; ingrid michaelson</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>they say that things just cannot grow<br/>
</em>
  <em>beneath the winter snow<br/>
or so i have been told </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>the feeling is a cold one, and it starts in his fingers. first from where they touch jughead’s throat, just under his jaw and far more steady than his lungs as they begin the barest of shudders beneath his ribs, and then from where his left hand brushes against the grass, idle, unfeeling, nothing but the slide of sweat and dirt and motionless blood in motionless arteries. everything’s too still, too quiet, not even the party he knows to be several yards away but definitely not <em> that </em> far loud enough to break it, not like his voice does, two syllables dropped heavy and stiff to the body beneath him. </p><p> </p><p><em> what happened </em> he asks, because all he can see is red turned cranberry dark from the shade of tree branches, all he can see is a stream of it leaking down and under jughead’s ear except it’s not leaking anymore, it’s idle, motionless, still, <em> too </em> still, everything’s <em> too still. </em></p><p> </p><p>he barely notices betty and veronica’s bodies crowd against his own, doesn’t hear their voices past the sickening beat of his own blood pumping past his ears, and it feels wrong, so <em> wrong, </em> when so much of jughead’s is decorating his skin and washing it a milky white in the moonlight. </p><p> </p><p>the feeling is a <em> heavy </em> one, and it starts with the first compression right to the center of jughead’s chest. <em> one, two, three, </em> and he feels his own sweat coating the back of his neck by the time he reaches thirty, by the time he tilts jughead’s head back and forces air into his lungs. <em> once, twice, </em> fingers unfeeling, cold, far more steady than his lungs as they contract to the point of aching beneath his ribs. </p><p> </p><p><em> breathe </em>he thinks, because all he can see is bloodsoaked gray against chock’lit shoppe tile, two pairs of hands stained redder than the booths two feet away, redder than his mom’s hair, redder than cheryl’s lipstick, too much red from a single person.</p><p> </p><p>teardrops fall over jughead’s face and archie can’t tell if it’s from him or from betty, but he tastes saltwater and soil on the next shared exhale, fights back the feeling of his own body collapsing in on itself from the inside out, starting from his fingers and ending at his sternum, because his body isn’t <em> his </em> right now, it’s jughead’s, each muscle and tendon pulled taut as he leans his weight into the next compression, each too deep breath that makes his head spin in preparation for the third round of rescue breathing, jughead’s <em> life </em>depends on it, he --</p><p> </p><p>he moves. </p><p> </p><p>jughead <em> moves, </em> the barest of shudders. starts like he’s been woken from a deep sleep and his eyes don’t even stay open for more than a second but archie still feels the world slip out from under him. </p><p> </p><p><em> no, no hospital </em> jug says, and archie should want to scream, should want to shed his skin from his bones and bury himself in the space between each new frantic heartbeat and he kind of does but he can’t bring himself to move his hand from its place on jughead’s chest, soaking in each rise and fall as if it’s his own grapple for oxygen. </p><p> </p><p>it feels like it is.</p><p> </p><p><em> jug </em> he says, repeats it like it’s the only thing he knows how to say, and jughead doesn’t stir, doesn’t open his eyes again, doesn’t even twitch, but his pulse is still there beneath his fingers and his breath is warm against archie’s ear when he leans in to catch it. </p><p> </p><p>“we need -- we need to get him to the nearest road,” betty gasps, phone now pocketed and hands suspended mid air like she doesn’t know what to do with them, but they’re still her hands that direct him to shoulder jughead’s entire bodyweight on his back, veronica’s that help maneuver him, that stop to grab at archie’s shoulders when he fumbles and falls to one knee. </p><p> </p><p>the ground tilts, spins, head over heals, nothing but dark smears and moonlight and veronica’s voice filtering in through a bone deep ringing.</p><p> </p><p>“archie?”</p><p> </p><p>something catches in his throat, a sound he can’t hear but betty’s face stood above him flickers for the briefest of moments and he feels like his chest has caught fire. </p><p><br/>
<em> be okay be okay be okay </em> he thinks, and he’s not sure if he means jughead or himself, feels the trickle of the former’s blood across his neck, smells the tangy scent of copper and his own perspiration, heavy and stiff and congealing his own blood inside his veins, but at least jughead’s body is loose and malleable and <em> alive </em> across his spine.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>they say we're buried far</em><br/>
<em>just like a distant star</em><br/>
<em>i simply cannot hold</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the way i wanted to write following archie for the entire 36 hours jughead was out :/</p></blockquote></div></div>
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